Putting Out the Stars (31 page)

‘Oh for God’s sake, leave me alone, would you? I’m all right.’ Laura swung around, tea towel in hand, and glared at Donal, then turned back to the
draining board and picked up another cup and started drying it furiously.

Donal stood for a few seconds, hands dropped to his sides. When Laura continued to ignore him, he swung on his heel and went into the sitting room. After a while Laura heard him rustling the
paper.

She sighed deeply and dropped the tea towel, then planted her palms on the draining board and looked out through the window into the black night. The light from the kitchen showed the outline of
the stone-flagged patio, the red-brick barbecue that Donal had spent one full summer putting together, beyond it the big old wooden bench with the lovely wide armrests that they’d found in a
scrap yard, and that Laura stained with a fresh coat every September. The narrow strip of earth running along beside the fence, just beginning to push up the tiny spears of future daffodils and
tulips. The two dwarf apple trees they’d planted at the bottom of the garden, leaf buds still tightly closed now. The rotary clothesline in the opposite corner, red plastic peg-container
hanging lopsidedly from one metal arm.

She remembered a barbecue they’d had for her birthday last August. The girls from the studio had come with their husbands, and Breffni and Cian, and a few of Donal’s workmates, and a
couple from across the road who’d invited them to their house-warming a few weeks before. Andrew and Ruth had been in Dublin, making last-minute wedding arrangements, and Laura had persuaded
herself that her mother really wouldn’t be bothered attending a party where she’d be the only one of her generation there.

They’d spread rugs out on the grass, and brought the stereo speakers out the window, and served Pimm’s, just to be posh, and wine spritzers when the Pimm’s was gone. The
weather had almost obliged; one quick shower had them grabbing the rugs and scurrying for cover, but then the sun had reappeared, and Donal had spread plastic sheets on the wet lawn, so the rugs
could be flung down again.

They’d feasted on Donal’s blue-cheese burgers and chicken kebabs and Cajun cod. Afterwards, Donal had put whole unpeeled bananas onto the barbecue, and when they were black all over
he had split them open and sprinkled the hot flesh with cinnamon and slathered them with rum mascarpone cream.

When everyone had gone home, Laura and Donal had lain out on a rug and watched the stars flickering on, and listened to Crowded House, and Donal had given her the new Norah Jones CD and the gold
daisy in a silver vase on a slender silver chain that she’d admired one day, months ago, when they’d been out together.

He’d knelt on the rug behind her and fastened it around her neck as she leant back against him. ‘Happy birthday, flower girl.’

And after that they’d gone to bed and made slow, tender love, and Laura had prayed that it would happen that night, on her twenty-ninth birthday night. But of course it hadn’t.

She brushed away the tear that had come out of nowhere, and picked up the tea towel again.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’ Her voice was low, and hurried. ‘Can you talk?’ He glanced around, checked that no one was close enough to hear.

‘Yes. Anything wrong?’ Was she having second thoughts again? What they had was so precious . . . and so fragile. He was aware, all the time, how easily he could lose her, and the
thought terrified him.

‘I – I do want to spend the night with you.’

He was flooded with relief – could feel it coursing through him. ‘Wonderful.’ He’d do anything, tell any number of lies. ‘Let’s see what we can arrange then,
yeah?’

‘Yeah . . . it might take a while to organise.’

He could wait forever. ‘OK – see you Thursday; we can talk about it then.’

And she was gone. He pressed the off button and held the phone against his chest. The whole night together. Dinner first in the restaurant, like a real couple. Then a second bottle of wine in
the room. No rushing, no checking the time. Candles maybe, maybe a bath . . .

Someone called him from across the room and he turned slowly, hoping to God he looked normal.

Ruth pushed the basket towards Laura. ‘You’ve had no garlic bread.’

Laura had taken only a small portion of lasagne, and loaded the rest of her plate with the mixed leaf salad, and as far as Ruth could see, she had yet to take a single bite. She
had
managed two glasses of wine, though, while Ruth was still on her first.

‘Thanks.’ Laura smiled and took a slice from the basket and put it down beside the untouched lasagne. As she picked up her fork again – just to push the salad around, it seemed
– Ruth glanced down the table. Breffni and Donal were arguing about the right way to make trifle, and Cian was watching them with a small smile on his face. Andrew had gone out to the kitchen
to get another bottle of wine.

Donal was shaking his head at something Breffni had just said. ‘You have to let the sherry soak into the sponge first; and then the jelly has to be half-set before you add it, otherwise
the whole thing will just go mushy.’

‘Not if you use those bourbon biscuits, or whatever they call them – the hard, fingery ones. You have to pour the jelly over them while it’s still hot, to soften them up a
bit.’ Breffni was leaning over the table towards Donal – Ruth wondered if she was aware of how low her top was; Donal’s eyes kept wandering down to the blue pendant that swung
between her breasts. And the tiny skirt she was wearing – of course Breffni got away with it, with those legs, but still . . . Ruth would have been mortified to go out in such revealing
clothes. She was certainly managing to distract the men – Donal was almost gaping openly at her cleavage, and Ruth had spotted Andrew looking at her too. Funnily enough, Cian was the only one
who didn’t seem to notice Breffni’s get-up. Used to it, Ruth supposed.

Donal was shaking his head again. ‘No – the sherry will soften the biscuits enough. If you pour the hot jelly over, it dilutes the sherry taste too much. And you’re not
supposed to use those biscuits anyway; proper trifle is supposed to have cake in it, preferably day-old.’

Breffni made a face, fingers playing with her pendant. ‘Yeuk – who wants a trifle with stale cake in it? Even if it is loaded with booze. And speaking of which –’ She
held out her glass to Andrew, who had just come back with the wine.

He poured, and she smiled up at him, still fiddling with the pendant – couldn’t she see that that was just drawing more attention to her low neckline? ‘Thank you,
darling.’

Andrew smiled back, a little stiffly, Ruth thought. Probably embarrassed at her obviousness. He held the bottle over Laura’s glass. ‘You’re not driving tonight, are
you?’

Laura stretched out her empty glass. ‘No, I’m not. So yes please, I will. Cheers, everyone.’ Without looking around the table, she lifted the glass and took a sip.

‘So, Ruth, how’s the new job going?’ Ruth turned towards Donal with relief; he either hadn’t noticed Laura’s odd manner, or he was choosing to ignore it. And that
suited Ruth just fine.

‘Great – I’m really enjoying it.’ And she was; Helen couldn’t have been better to work with – never pushed her weight around, never let things fluster her.
Someone coming into the salon for the first time would find it hard to decide who the boss was. After two weeks in the job, Ruth felt totally at home there – and her new-found independence
had given her the confidence to invite everyone around for the long-promised dinner.

She’d played it safe with lasagne, one of the few dishes she felt capable of getting right. The recipes in Cecily’s cookbook were all too posh really – she didn’t want
the others to think she was trying to show off. To go with the lasagne, a couple of packs of mixed leaves that you emptied into a bowl with some nice dressing. And the garlic bread wrapped in
tinfoil, eight minutes in the oven. The dessert was safe too – you really couldn’t go wrong with apple and sultana crumble and a jug of cream. They’d stocked up on wine and beer,
and the fire had been on all day, so the room was lovely and cosy when everyone arrived.

They really couldn’t have done more – so why was the evening not going well? Laura had hardly spoken since she’d arrived late with Donal – nearly three quarters of an
hour late, leaving Ruth to juggle with the oven temperature: down so the lasagne wouldn’t dry out, up again when it was time to put the garlic bread in. Trying to talk to Breffni and Cian
when they arrived had been difficult too, with Ruth having to pretend that she didn’t notice Andrew ogling Breffni – and who could blame him? She was relieved, though, to see that at
least he wasn’t drinking an awful lot this evening. That would have been all she needed – a drunken husband, on top of everything else.

And then, when Donal and Laura finally arrived, with apologies and a bottle of expensive-looking wine, Ruth suspected that they’d had a row: Laura looked tense, and Donal seemed much more
subdued than usual. And both Breffni and Laura were drinking like fishes now, with Laura looking gloomier as the evening wore on. Altogether, the atmosphere struck Ruth as distinctly strained, and
she’d so wanted this meal – their first time entertaining as a married couple, apart from the few dinners with Cecily – to be a success.

But she’d better keep trying; she was the hostess, after all. She pasted a smile on her face and looked over at Laura. ‘We must get together for lunch soon – we haven’t
done it for ages.’

Laura nodded. ‘Mmm – but won’t it be harder to arrange now, with you working too?’

‘Yeah – it’ll have to be on my day off, which I can gather is generally going to be Wednesday. How’s
your
job going – are you still on the
schoolbooks?’

Laura nodded again. ‘It’s slow going: there’s a lot to be got through. And it’s fairly tedious, but I shouldn’t complain. The money’s good – or it will
be, whenever I get it.’

No doubt about it, Laura had definitely lost weight. Her black top seemed to emphasise the drawn look on her face, the hollows underneath her cheekbones; her arms in the elbow-length sleeves
looked thin. As Ruth watched, Laura picked up her wine glass again and took a long swallow. Then she turned and called down the table. ‘Andrew, would you ever take off Leonard Cohen?
He’s making me suicidal.’

Andrew smiled. ‘Blame your husband – he chose it.’

‘Oh right; I should have known.’ Laura propped her chin in her hand and studied Donal. ‘He likes singers his own age – makes him feel less like a dinosaur.’

‘Better than being like a kid.’ Donal was smiling, but the room was thick with tension. Ruth’s heart sank; she wished this miserable night was over. She stood and began to
collect the dinner plates, not knowing how to fix things. Andrew got up too, and went to the CD player. ‘Now children, stop squabbling. Uncle Andrew will put on something nice and cheerful,
and if you’re very good, Auntie Ruth will get the dessert she’s been baking all day.’

And somehow, it helped. They all laughed; even Laura managed a feeble grin. Breffni got up and reached for the plates nearest to her. ‘Here Ruth, I’ll give you a hand.’ Ruth
noticed Andrew’s eyes on her again as she walked around collecting plates. In the kitchen, Breffni put her bundle down on the table and then folded her arms, watching Ruth as she opened the
oven door. The crumble looked good, nice golden top.

‘So – new house, new job. Everything going well for you.’

Her tone of voice was perfectly pleasant, but Ruth felt a stirring of familiar alarm. Even though Breffni had been so helpful when the house move was on, and had chatted away with Ruth whenever
they’d met for coffee with Laura since then, Ruth still didn’t feel totally at ease in her company; particularly now, on her own with her. And Breffni had had a fair bit to drink
tonight – who knew what she might come out with?

Ruth forced a bright smile. ‘Yes, everything’s fine, touch wood.’ She took her oven gloves from their hook and reached in to take the apple crumble from the oven.

‘All you need now is a new baby.’ Breffni began fiddling with her pendant again, watching Ruth intently.

‘Mmm.’ Ruth willed her smile to stay in place as she put the crumble on the table and turned to get the jug of cream from the fridge.